


Face Paint

by Glitter_Lisp



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Artist Castiel, Artist Sam, Fluff, M/M, Sastiel Big Bang 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 08:10:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5489945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glitter_Lisp/pseuds/Glitter_Lisp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas is the definition of an eccentric artist, Anna is his long suffering agent, and Sam somehow just became his nanny. Face paints, laundry, and other suitably artsy shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Face Paint

**Author's Note:**

> I gotta say thank you to the two people who actually made this fic possible. First to knightjeran over on tumblr for being a fantastic beta and simultaneously boosting my ego while kicking my ass (in a very friendly manner), and to my FANTASTIC artist, sammycolt24 on Livejournal, who jumped in at the last minute and gave me some absolutely beautiful art. Seriously, much much love to you, I might have screamed a little bit the first time I saw the drawing at the end.
> 
> Anyways, this story has been lurking in my brain for years, and it has a very special place in my heart now that it's finally out in the world. I hope you all enjoy it (AND THAT FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC ART) as much as I did!

 

_“Castiel, I will be moving in with you in three days.”_

 

Cas is so surprised he almost drops his phone. He does drop the fork he’s using to stir his pot of noodles. “ _What_? What are you talking about? You can’t do that! Why would you say that? Anna, no!”

 

“ _Because, while you are a brilliant artist and a wonderful person, you are undeniably terrible at being an adult. Not only do I care about you, but my job depends on your being alive to do yours. I can’t have you choking on a paintbrush or tripping over a canvas and smacking your head into the wall. I need you happy, healthy, and whole, for peace of mind and fullness of wallet_.”

 

Cas grunts and turns to lean against the counter, scowling at the floor. “And how exactly do those reasons equate to you moving in with me, _in three days_?”

 

“ _Because quite frankly, you can’t be trusted to answer your phone, I live too far away to check on you on a daily basis, and if I’m going to be moving closer to keep an eye on you, I don’t see why I should waste money on my own apartment when you have an untouched guest room.”_

 

“It’s not a guest room!” Cas cries. “It’s a _loft_ , and also the only bed in this apartment! As in, _my_ bed! Where _I_ just so happen to _sleep_!”

 

“ _Please, Castiel, we both know that the last time you slept in that bed was the night you moved in. You always just fall asleep in a pile of drop-cloths and dirty clothes, which means that bed is entirely open for me to use.”_

 

“ _It is not_ !” Cas roars. “You can’t treat me like this, Anna! I am an adult, damn it, and I- oh _shit_!”

 

The sound of hissing and bubbling finally registers in his brain, and he drops his phone on the floor with a thunk (and a surprised cry from Anna) as he turns to snatch his one clean pot off the burner before it boils over completely. Steam floats up where small drops of water slosh over the sides onto the hot stove top. “Oops.”

 

With a grimace, he bends to pick up the phone.

 

“ _-call the damn police if you don’t, I will, do you hear-_ ”

 

“I’m all right, Anna,” he says calmly. “The pot boiled over while you were talking at me.”

 

“ _The pot- this is exactly why I don’t think you should be left alone, Castiel_.”

 

“And you can’t think of a better option that moving in with me with no advance warning?” Cas demands, wrinkling his nose. “Really, Anna?”

 

“ _Well it’s either that or hire you a housekeeper. Or a nanny_ ,” his sister replies, voice coming through crackly and exasperated, and Cas lights up.

 

“Housekeeper! Perfect! What a great plan, Anna! You are just absolutely full of those. I think I’ll get right on that. I’d better go right up an advertisement before I forget. Wow, thanks for that wonderful idea, I’ll call you back!”

 

He hangs up, looks at his phone, shrugs, then drops it in the pot of water. 

 

** **

 

**Attempt #1:**

 

“Samandriel!” Cas bellows, just barely restraining himself from throwing a bucket of paint at the young man’s head. “What have I told you about interrupting me!”

 

Samandriel shrinks back. “Sorry, Mr. Novak, I just. Uh. Ms. Novak said to make sure you eat, and-”

 

“I can eat after I finish this, which I will never do if you keep pestering me! Get out of my apartment!”

 

Samandriel all but crawls away, and Cas texts Anna, _Tell that kid not to come back_.

 

**Attempt #2:**

 

“Hello, Mr. Novak, my name is Hannah. Your sister hired me.”

 

Cas narrows his eyes at the woman on his doorstep. “She didn’t tell me she was sending anyone by.”

 

“Well she told me,” Hannah replied smartly. “So one of us is in the loop then. May I come in?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“I don’t think you would make a very good personal assistant. You can tell Anna thank you, but she needs to try harder.”

 

He doesn’t quite slam the door in her face, but he comes close.

 

**Attempt #3:**

 

“Mr. Novak-”

 

“Go away! I’m painting!”

 

  ****

 

“Castiel,” Anna groans, “you aren’t even trying!”

 

“Yes I am,” Cas says, affronted. “I’m trying very hard!”

 

“No, you’re not; you are doing the exact opposite of try. You’re trying _not_ to like them!”

 

“It’s not my fault they’re all so unlikable,” Cas grumbles, crossing his arms and glaring at the table rather than the extremely disapproving sister sitting across from him. Supposedly they're meeting over coffee to discuss displaying a few of his pieces in an upcoming show. He should have known she would just use the meeting as an excuse to berate him for what she calls his “fratboy meets middle schooler" lifestyle.

 

“It is your fault that you keep running them off.”

 

“I do not.”

 

“On purpose.”

 

“I do not!”

 

“I still have two suitcases ready to go,” she reminds him. “I can be moved in as soon as Friday.”

 

“They’re all college students,” Cas whines. “And worse, they’re communication majors! I hate communicating with people! Quit sending me people who try to communicate with me!”

 

Anna looks two seconds away from dumping her coffee over his head. “You have until Friday,” she snaps, “or _I’ll_ be the one communicating with you.”

 

Cas scowls and jumps up from the table. “I like the charity that the money will go to,” he says, abruptly switching back to the original purpose of their conversation. "Pick whichever pieces you want to use in the show. I’m going to go buy some new canvases. Goodbye.”

 

“Cas-”

 

“You can pay for the coffee, too!” he calls spitefully over his shoulder as he leaves, and the glass doors swing softly shut behind him with a gentle _swoosh_ and a tinkle of the bell. It’s not quite the dramatic exit he wanted.

 

 

This is not actually where Cas wants to be at the moment, but he doesn’t feel like going back to the apartment. Instead, he finds himself staring blankly at a wall of canvases.

 

“Hey, Cas. Can I help you?”

 

He blinks slowly and turns to the man. “Hello, Sam. No, I don’t think so.”

 

“All right, let me know if there’s anything I can do.” Sam turns but hesitates before walking off. “Hey, are you sure you’re okay? You seem… not okay.”

 

Cas squints slightly as he looks at the taller man. As far as he can tell, Sam has been working at this Michael’s for years, since he was here when Cas first moved into his apartment. He’s technically an instructor, not a shelf stalker (as Cas thinks of all the other employees), but he's actually able to give actual advice on paints and canvases and things. Cas tends to seek him out before anyone else when he needs help with something.

 

“Sam, how much do you like your job?”

 

Sam quirks an eyebrow. “I like it just fine. How do you like yours?”

 

“At the moment, not very much. So I suppose I couldn’t convince you to leave this job.”

 

Sam’s other eyebrow slides up to join the first. Cas admires his control; the most he can do with his eyebrows is glower. “No, I don’t suppose you could. Why would you be trying to convince me to leave my job?”

 

“If I can’t find a personal assistant in the next forty-eight hours, my life will be over and I will never be able to paint again,” Cas shrugs, turning to scowl at the canvases some more. “You wouldn’t have to quit this job, actually. Your hours are flexible, aren’t they? You could just come by before and after. Make sure I’m still… alive…” He leans forward and squints. “This is on sale?”

 

Twenty minutes later, he has three small canvases and a promise from Sam to come by tomorrow morning.

 

 

 

He’s already been awake for three hours when his intercom buzzes. "Hel..." He trails off, considering which shade of blue to use next. "...lo?"

 

_"Hi, Cas. It's Sam. Can you buzz me in?"_

 

"Of course. Come on up."

 

It takes the elevator a few minutes to reach his floor, which gives him just enough time to change out of his paint clothes and wash his hands. He does neither, and when Sam knocks on the door, he has to stop for a moment to figure out how to let him in without getting paint everywhere. Finally he just shrugs and opens it anyways, leaving a green print on the knob.

 

"Nice place," Sam comments, looking admiringly up at the dark wooden beams and the large wall of windows on his right. The loft itself is built directly across from the door, over the kitchen area. Everything else is empty space. At least, it would be empty if it weren’t for the randomly scattered clothes, art supplies, and one overturned sofa in the center of the room that Cas has been using as a makeshift easel.

 

He’s not entirely sure that Sam is serious, but he nods anyways. “Yes, it is.”

 

“So Anna talked to me,” Sam says, strolling into the room and draping his jacket next to Cas’s bathrobe on the curtain rod Cas had installed into the brick wall when he first moved in. Coat racks take up too much space. "And she told me what my actual job is."

 

"I already told you, you're my PA."

 

"Well, that's what you called it. Anna called it a 'life supervisor.'" Cas scoffs, and Sam offers him a small smile. “Yeah, that’s sort of what I thought. I’m pretty sure she actually meant ‘babysitter.’”

 

“Rule number one,” Cas declares. “You are never to use that word in reference to yourself when around me. Ever. Actually, just don’t say it at all.”

 

Sam nods solemnly. “Of course, Mr. Novak.”

 

Cas wrinkles his nose in disgust. “I’m banning that one, too. When did you talk to Anna?"

 

"Yesterday, a little after you left. She stopped by to chat and rant about the mad habits of eccentric artists. I think she was just venting; I didn’t actually tell her I had taken the job. She's still angling to sell some of my paintings."

 

"She's a fool, you can do much better. She's my sister, I'm stuck with her, but you deserve a less sadistic agent."

 

Sam laughs and then glances down. “Should I take my shoes off, too?”

 

Cas frowns and follows Sam’s gaze to his own bare feet. “I didn’t realize I had. Yes, please do. It seems more natural.”

 

Sam toes off his tennis shoes and sets them below his coat. “So, have you had breakfast yet?”

 

“I… breakfast?”

 

“The meal you eat when you wake up in the morning.”

 

“I believe I might have had a few baby carrots,” Cas offers, and Sam shakes his head with a smile.

 

“You do what you do, man. I’ll make you an omelette. Any dietary restrictions I should be aware of?”

 

"I sometimes don't like meat."

 

"Is today one of those sometimes?"

 

Cas considers for a moment. "No. I want bacon."

 

"All right."

 

After staring at Sam for a few minutes as the man gets the ingredients out of the fridge, Cas returns to his painting. It's only several hours later that he finally steps away from it long enough to glance down and see an upside down bowl on the table next to him, beside his brushes and palette. There's a sticky note (he has sticky notes?) on top, informing him that Sam had to leave for work, and unless Cas has any objections, he'll come by at six to make him dinner. By the way, here's his phone number.

 

Cas stares at the sticky note, but it refuses to give him any more information, so he sets it aside and lifts the bowl up to see what's underneath: a plate, an omelet, two strips of bacon, and a fork.

 

 

 

_-ANNA I FND 1 I LIKE_

 

_-One what? Why are you talking in all caps?_

 

_-PA_

_-BECUZ I CN_

_-STFU_

 

_-Please stop, you're acting childish. Where did you find an assistant that you don't hate? Is it someone awful?_

 

_-MICHAEL_

 

_-... You went to Michael for help?_

 

_-NO @ MICHAELS_

_-SAM WNCHSTR_

_-GE WORKS FOR ME NOW I STOLE HIM_

_-LOL_

_-STFU_

 

_-I literally didn't even say anything. You can't tell someone to shut up if they aren't speaking. Or texting._

 

  ****

 

"AAAUUUGHHH!!! AAAUUUGHHH!!!"

 

" _What the hell, Cas!"_

 

 _"_ AAAUUU _-_ oh, hello, Sam."

 

Sam is staring at him, eyes wide and alarmed. "What are you doing? I could hear you bellowing from the elevator!"

 

Cas glances around him unsurely. It’s not obvious? "The bound angle pose."

 

"I can see that," Sam says, voice slow and purposely calm. "Why are you sitting in the middle of the floor, doing the bound angle pose, and screaming bloody murder?"

 

"I find shouting into the void to be very therapeutic," Cas explains. "I'd like to get back to it."

 

Sam closes his eyes and exhales slowly through his nose. "Of course. I'm going to finish cleaning up the loft. Carry on."

 

Cas watches Sam for a moment as he climbs up the ladder to continue his self-assigned task of cleaning the entire apartment, then closes his own eyes. He breathes in. He breathes out. He breathes in. "AAAUUUGHHH!!!"

 

"Oh, _Jesus-"_

 

 

 

Sam makes him dinner. Sam does all his shopping. Sam cleans up after him. Sam never initiates the conversations, but he’s always ready to talk when Cas feels like it.

 

But most importantly, Sam is, before he is anything else, a fellow artist.

 

"I'd go with the darker blue," Sam shrugs. "But it's your painting, man."

 

Cas growls softly. "I asked for your opinion, Sam."

 

"And my opinion is that it's your painting, not mine."

 

"But if it were your painting, you would use a darker shade of blue?"

 

Sam hums. Cas scowls. "Get out of my apartment, Winchester."

 

Sam smiles and makes sure to water the petunias on his way out.

 

 ****

 

"AAAUUUGHHH! AAAUUUGHHH!"

 

Cas is vaguely aware of Sam humming softly as he sidesteps him. When he cracks one eyes open to watch, Sam shoots him a quick smile and returns to... whatever he's doing. Sweeping, apparently, because he's holding a broom.

 

"AAAUUUGHHH!"

 

Sam doesn't flinch, or stop humming.

 

**  
**

 

"Someone's interested in my paintings," Sam blurts out.

 

Cas blinks at him. "Why are you here? It's eleven twenty-six."

 

"I took my lunch break early," Sam admits. His cheeks are flushed and he's grinning. Dimples have appeared in his cheeks, as though someone has two fingers pressing down on either side of his mouth.

 

"But why are you here? You never come after seven fifteen AM, or before six PM."

 

Sam laughs and shrugs, leaning against the door with both palms flat against the wood. "Because I wanted to tell you. There was a guy in one of my classes, and he said that just what I was able to do in the space of an hour was amazing. Apparently he's like this art connoisseur or something but only just got interested in actually painting for himself? Anyways, he asked if I did any of my own work. And I mean, of course I do, but I don't usually show it to people, but I had my sketchbook in my bag and a few pictures of my actual paintings on my phone, and." Sam pauses his story to laugh again. "And he wants to meet up later so that he can look at them! Cas, I've never sold a painting in my _life_!"

 

Apparently Cas takes too long to answer, because Sam’s smile doesn’t lose any of its brilliance, but it doesn’t get a little smaller. Less of a grin and more of a bemused little twist of his lips. “Cas?”

 

“I’m very happy for you,” Cas says, and his voice is strangled because somehow he’s never noticed the exact curve of Sam’s ears, or how sharply his nose is pointed, or how very pink his lips are. He’s never seen the perfect distance between Sam’s eyes in ratio to the width of the eyes themselves, or the Fibonacci spirals in his cheeks, and why not?

 

Sam is grinning again. “Yeah, I’m excited. But the guy wanted to come to my place at six, so I probably can’t make it over tonight, is that okay?”

 

“Of course,” Cas says, and finds that the words come easier as he recovers from the shock of realizing that Sam is beautiful. “I survived on my own for quite some time without you, you know.”

 

Sam snorts and his grin gets impossibly wider. “Yeah, barely.” He glances down at his watch (his fingers! his wrists! what sort of an artist is Cas that he never noticed those before?) and grimaces slightly. How is he grimacing while still smiling? Why has Cas never drawn it? “I have to go, man, I have a class in a half an hour that I need to get set up for.”

 

"Yes, of course. I'll see you..." He flounders.

 

"Tomorrow," Sam answers, brilliant smile never leaving his face. "Later then, boss."

 

Once he feels that it's been long enough that Sam must be out of earshot, Cas plops down where he is and arranges himself into the bound angle pose.

 

"AAAUUUGHHH!"

 

 

Hours later, Cas steps back from his latest piece. A man who isn't Sam—it would be rude to paint him without permission, he thinks—is pressed back against a wooden door, one with a green handprint on the doorknob, and he's laughing with his eyes closed as two translucent hands press dimples into his cheeks. They're not Cas's hands.

 

 

Sam comes by the next morning twenty minutes later than usual. Cas tells himself not to worry. He has to keep telling himself not to worry when Sam finally comes in and he's absolutely glowing.

 

"I'm so sorry, man," he says, and looks apologetic but not actually _sorry_ . "B rady — the guy I was talking about yesterday — wound up staying a while. Apparently he wanted to look at every single painting in my apartment, and he wouldn't _leave_ , and I was so tired I got kind of a late start this morning. So I thought I'd make it up to you." He holds up a paper bag and smiles. "I brought croissants?"

 

Cas think about hands that aren't his pushing those dimples into place around a smile that isn't Sam's. "Well I suppose I should forgive you, but I'm going to wait and see if the croissants are any good before I do."

 

Sam laughs, and something inside of Cas lights up at the sound.

 

 

"AAAUUUGHHH!"

 

"AAAUUUGHHH!"

 

Cas opens his eyes. Sam has a thoughtful look on his face. "Well?"

 

"It is surprisingly relaxing," the other man admits. He stretches a little, just barely flexing from side to side, and Cas's eyes fixate on the twitch of Sam's thigh underneath his blue jeans.

 

"AAAUUUGHHH!"

 

"What- oh, augh," Cas says belatedly. "AAAUUUGHHH!"

 

 

"Anna, I need you to fire Sam for me."

 

Anna's nostrils flare—Cas has always found that fascinating—and she clenches her hands so tightly around her cup he worries she might shatter it. "I'm sorry?"

 

"I need you to fire Sam for me."

 

Her eyes are slowly widening. The left one begins to twitch. "Why would I fire him?"

 

"I don't like him."

 

"You've liked him just fine for the past three months, not to mention the two years before that."

 

"I don't like him," Cas repeats, feeling ridiculous but obstinate. Sam can't work for him anymore, that's all there is to it.

 

"Why would _I_ fire him?" Anna asks again. They both tend to be rather repetitive, he's noticed, at least in their conversations with each other. "You've had no trouble firing all the others."

 

"Yes, because you hired them," he explains. "You hire, I fire. I hire, you fire. It's a _system_ , Anna. You love systems."

 

"Firing people that your sibling hired is not a system, it's simply you being difficult." She lets her breath out slowly. “Why don’t you like him anymore?”

 

“I just don’t. Why won’t you just fire him?” He is perfectly aware that he sounds like a whiny child, but he doesn’t care. He needs Sam out of his life as quickly as possible.

 

"Has he been inappropriate or rude in some way?" Anna asks. Cas scowls.

 

"No, he's been perfectly courteous."

 

"Then is he not doing his job correctly?"

 

"No, he's amazing at it," Cas snaps. "He goes above and beyond what I ask of him."

 

Anna is scowling right back at him now. "Then what? Is he stealing from you? Do you not like his jokes? What?"

 

"He would never!" Cas cries, affronted. "He's far too honorable to even think of that. And his jokes are hilarious, thank you."

 

Anna groans loudly enough that several other people in the shop look over at her. "I can't just fire him for no reason, Castiel! Apparently, he's perfect, amazing, honorable, and hilarious. I can't fire him for being a good person!"

 

"Could you fire him for being pretty then?" Cas demands.

 

Anna's whole face goes slack. "For _what_?"

 

“Sam Winchester is upsettingly attractive,” Cas explains. “It’s distracting  me from my work and I hate it. I need him to stop working for me, so I need you to fire him, because if I fire him he’ll be hurt. If you fire him, it’ll just be because you’re strange and then I can express my sincere regrets.”

 

“I am not firing the man just because you have a crush!” Anna hisses, her expression a strange mixture of angry and incredulous. After a moment, however, she simply starts laughing and stands up from their little table. “I can’t believe you sometimes. I have to go deal with _actual_ adults now, Castiel, but I wish you the best of luck."

 

"But Anna," he whines, and there's no denying how petulant he sounds.

 

Anna laughs again and pats his shoulder. "Have fun sorting out your love life, Cas."

 

"Wait, you can't just- Anna!"

 

She glances at him over her shoulder and grins. "Oh, and you can pay for the coffee."

 

**  
**

 

Cas figures he should prepare a speech of some sort to give Sam, but he's too busy trying to figure out what's wrong with his latest painting. The main issue seems to be that his latest painting doesn't exist. And he is, in fact, so frustrated by this that he doesn't realize it's time for Sam to come by until he looks down and realizes his breakfast isn't there. Then he looks and realizes that neither is Sam, and it's almost three o'clock.

 

He pointedly does not look at the canvas or the sketchbooks around him, because seeing the half-hearted strokes is just frustrating. Instead, he goes and makes himself something resembling a sandwich and then begins drawing in the condensation on the windows. It's raining. He hadn't noticed that before. It's just rain for now, but he can mark out darker clouds at the edge of the sky. It's going to get worse.

 

He's sure Sam is fine. Sam is a remarkably efficient human being. Who is fine.

 

Three o'clock comes and goes. Sam continues being fine somewhere else.

 

**  
**

 

At four, Cas finds himself trying to scream, but his voice is so big that he can't open his mouth wide enough to let it out. It stays stuck in his throat.

 

At five, he sits facing the door and twirling a paintbrush absently between his fingers. There are drops of yellow paint on the wooden handle, and the hairs of the brush have been dyed purple and red.

 

At six, he stands up and stares at the door and waits. Sam is fine. Sam is fine.

 

Sam is not there.

 

But Sam is fine.

 

Probably.

 

… Damn.

 

**  
**

 

Cas finally breaks down and texts Sam at six thirty, a simple, _Where are you?_ He's so concerned he actually uses proper grammar and spelling. A moment later, he adds, _Are you okay?_

 

After a few seconds, his phone buzzes with, _Outside. Sorry. Coming in now._

 

Cas nods, more relieved than he cares to admit. Chances are that Sam simply missed this morning for... some reason, and was late this evening because of the rain. And he didn't let Cas know because... well, because. Sam must have a reason. Sam is fine.

 

Sam is soaking wet.

 

"Did you just sit outside in the rain?" Cas demands, looking around for a towel. He doesn't see one, but there is a hoodie draped over the upside down sofa, so he hands that over. Sam's lips quirk up in a smile, and he vigorously rubs it over his hair, trying to dry it enough that it won't stick to his face.

 

"No, man, this is just from walking from my car to the door. It's pouring out there." He hangs up the hoodie and peels off his own jacket. "Did you already eat?"

 

"I don't really know how to cook."

 

Sam snorts. "That's a no, then. Of course."

 

He shakes just a little and kicks of his tennis shoes and socks, walking on wrinkled bare feet towards the kitchen. Cas trails behind him. "Are you all right?"

 

Sam slams a cabinet after pulling a plate out. "Not really, no. Sandwich okay?"

 

"Oh. Yes."

 

Cas watches in silence as Sam slides past him and begins pulling lunch meat and a tomato out of the fridge. Cas doesn't mention that he had a sandwich just a few hours ago, because Sam's sandwiches are of a much higher quality than his. It hardly seems right to compare them.

 

“Why aren’t you okay?”

 

Sam slowly removes the twisty tie from the bag of bread and reaches in to pull out two slices, bypassing the heel. “I lost my job.”

 

Cas stares at the back of Sam’s head and hoists himself up onto the counter. “No, you didn’t. You’re still here.” Did Anna fire him after all?

 

Sam shakes his head. “Not this one, Cas. At Michael’s. Budget cuts, or whatever. They had to let someone go, and since I already have another job.”

 

He offers Cas a tiny smile, and Cas feels it like a punch to his gut. “Of course you do,” he says. “Have another job, that is. For me. You work for me. And will continue to do so. I hope. Will you?”

 

Sam’s tight expression softens at Cas’s fumbling words. Cas’s heart stops beating. “Yeah, I will. Thank you.”

 

“Do you need a raise? I can give you a raise. Because I wasn’t paying you enough to live on before, because you had another job, but I will now. I could start paying you full time. What did they pay you at Michael’s? I can give you that. Or that plus what you already make. I can afford it, you know. I’m very wealthy.”

 

Sam snorts out a laugh and hands the sandwich to Cas before hopping up on the counter opposite. “I think you’ve underestimated how much you already pay me. Just like... another couple hundred a month should cover it. Thank you."

 

Cas grips the edge of his plate to keep from reaching out and stroking Sam's face. "Of course."

 

**  
**

 

The storm gets worse. Sam tries to leave three times over the next two hours. He actually heads out the door the third time, and Cas assumes he made it to the ground floor before he returns because it's almost five minutes later that Sam walks back in. "Got a flood warning on my phone," he sighs, holding up the offending object. "Water's already an inch deep in the parking lot."

 

"You can take the bed," Cas says. He's already given Sam a t-shirt (that's too tight) and a pair of sweatpants (that are too short), so he might as well continue his generous streak and give him a place to sleep, although Sam might be too big for the bed.

 

Sam frowns. "That's not fair, man. It's your bed. Do you have like a sleeping bag or..." He trails off when Cas shakes his head.

 

"Really, Sam, I don't like the bed anyways. It's too far away from everything. Go head up when you're tired. It's fine."

 

Sam bites his lip. Cas's desire to draw him suddenly flares up again. "You're sure?"

 

"Oh God, yes," he mumbles. Then clears his throat. "That is, if you'd like to, of course."

 

"Of course," Sam repeats, then smiles. "Thank you, Cas. Really."

 

"It's no trouble," Cas chokes, absolutely panicked.

 

**  
**

 

Sam offers twice more to let Cas use the bed before he goes up at eleven. He spends most of the time messing around on his phone and leaving Cas alone. Cas appreciates it; he might just fall apart if Sam were to speak to him.

 

"Night," Sam says, in the same soft voice he uses whenever Cas is painting. It's smooth and gentle and catches his attention without breaking his concentration. He apparently thinks Cas is working. In truth, he's just been aggressively reorganizing his brushes for the past four hours, using different criteria each time because he needs something that will keep him occupied. That covered canvas in the corner continues to mock him. There's no way in hell he's getting anything done tonight. He might as well just go to sleep.

 

**  
**

 

He cannot go to sleep.

 

Sam is only two dozen feet away from Cas's nest of laundry and blankets and he keeps peering up at the loft, trying to see if he can make him out in the meager light coming through the windows. Is that creepy? He's not sure. He'll have to ask Sam.

 

Frustrated, he rolls up into a sitting position and presses the soles of his feet together, pushing his knees down with his palms. He breathes in. He breathes out. He breathes in. He chokes on the exhale as he remembers that Sam is only twenty-four feet away and asleep.

 

That just makes him want to scream even louder.

 

Uninterested in getting caught in some sort of cycle, he grabs a pair of pants, wads them up, and shoved them against his face. He breathes in. He breathes out. He breathes in. "Awumpfapt!"

 

It's somewhat lacking, but it's the best he can do right now. Breathe in. "Awumpfapt!"

 

Breathe in. "Awumpfapt!"

 

Breathe in. "Cas?"

 

Gasp. Choke. Wheeze. Pull pants away from mouth and stare up at Sam.

 

"I sincerely apologize for waking you up," Cas says after a moment of a silence.

 

"You didn't," Sam assures him through a yawn. "I usually have trouble sleeping in unfamiliar beds, that's all. What are you doing?"

 

"I was trying not to wake you."

 

"You _didn't_. Trying not to wake me while doing what?" Sam asks, sitting down facing Cas. "Are we screaming?"

 

"At the moment, no."

 

"Can we?" Sam carefully pulls the blue jeans out of Cas's hands. "Ugh, these need to be washed... I could stand to scream into the void a little."

 

"Oh. Yes, of course."

 

"Mind if I ask what you're screeching about tonight?" Sam asks as he arranges his legs.

 

"Art block," Cas says simply, and doesn't elaborate. "You?"

 

"I lost my job," Sam says dryly. "It's a little upsetting."

 

"Of course. Shall we?"

 

Sam closes his eyes. Cas does the same.

 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breath in. "AAAUUUGHHH!"

 

**  
**

 

It's only a few minutes later that Cas peeks open one eye. When he sees that Sam's eyes are fully closed, he opens his all the way and stares unabashedly. Sam's throat bobs occasionally as he hums—humming in between shouts was Sam's idea, to keep them from wrecking their voices—and his nose and cheekbones are sharp and his forehead is wide and smooth and there's a mole just to the left of his nose and—

 

"Sam, stop!" he shrieks.

 

Sam jolts, sunflower eyes opening wide. "What? What's wrong?"

 

"I know what I need to paint!" Cas hisses, leaning forward. Sam leans back. "Yes, you're perfect!"

 

He's on his feet in an instant, scrambling for his markers. They're just children's markers, but they're perfect for what he needs. Sam follows him.

 

"Wait, are you going to paint me?" he asks. Cas waves a hand at him to shush him and laughs, pulling the cap off a red marker with his teeth and brandishing it above his head.

 

"Even better!" he mumbles, voice muffled around the plastic. "I'm going to _paint_ you!"

 

He takes one step forward, and Sam takes two steps back. "Uh, no."

 

"Well I suppose it is technically drawing, not painting," Cas muses, letting the cap fall out from between his teeth. "Come on." He raises the marker, aiming towards that mole.

 

"You can't just paint or draw on people without their permission," Sam says with a roll of his eyes. Cas shushes him again, and he rolls his eyes again but lowers his voice. "Generally, you ask first. Something along the lines of, 'Hey, Cas, may I color all over your face with a marker?'"

 

"If you'd like," Cas says, shrugging and handing the marker over. Sam blinks, then laughs softly and steps forward, only a few inches separating them as he drops one little dot on the tip of Cas's nose.

 

"There."

 

"Oh come on, Sam, that's hardly anything!" Cas complains. "What sort of an artist are you? Make some art!"

 

Sam's eyes light up with the challenge, a ferocious grin spreading across his face. "Better hang tight," he whispers, cupping Cas's cheek with one hand and readjusting his grip on the marker with the other

 

Cas hangs on as tight as he can.

 

**  
**

 

Markers are scattered across the floor. Half of Cas's face feels cool and damp and just a little sticky. The other is about to catch fire beneath the weight of Sam's hand. He's sitting down now, leaning against the wall with his legs straight out as Sam kneels next to him, dragging the tip of a pale blue marker across Cas's hairline. He frowns and cranes his neck, leaning sideways over Cas as he tries to get the right angle, before he finally sighs in frustration and slings his left leg over Cas's knees, kneeling above him and sliding his hand up Cas's forehead to hold his hair out of the way. He pauses for a moment as he takes in Cas's befuddled expression.

 

"Is this okay?"

 

"Yes?" Cas hazards. "Why wouldn't it be? It's fine."

 

Sam smiles at him, hazel eyes and deep dimples and morning stubble that's just starting to make an appearance, and gets back to work.

 

**  
**

 

Cas isn't sure how much longer it is when Sam finally clambers off, sitting cross-legged next to Cas, and smiles. "Done," he whispers and, before Cas has a chance to move, hands the green marker in his hand over. " _Now_ it's your turn."

 

Cas pulls Sam close and gets to work.

 

Streaks of grey and brown, green at the base, white at the top, red and orange and gold. And on the other side, deep blues and purples and greens and blacks and it's beautiful, it's the greatest thing he's ever made. He doesn't know why he hasn't done this before.

 

"How's it coming?" Sam breathes. Cas scowls.

 

"Hush, your face moves when you talk."

 

Sam blinks innocently but doesn't respond. His face goes mostly still, except for the corner of his lips, which twitch traitorously. As punishment, Cas starts drawing over them next. Sam lets out a muffled grunt and scrunches his eyes shut. Cas can feel him shaking with laughter under his hand, and he smirks.

 

"See, that's what you get!" he crows, and Sam finally pulls back to laugh.

 

"Damn it, Cas, that tickles! Be careful!"

 

"Ugh, fine, fine," Cas mumbles, and reaches for another marker.

 

**  
**

 

"So... what did you draw?"

 

They’ve migrated over to the sofa, leaning against the back of it and staring up at the ceiling. "Do you have a mirror?" Sam asks. "It looks pretty cool. I'd rather just show you."

 

"There's probably one in the bathroom," Cas mumbles. "We can both look."

 

Neither of them moves.

 

"Sam?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Cas thinks about what he wants to say, and then shrugs when he realizes that he doesn’t want to say anything. “I don’t know.”

 

Sam laughs and tilts his head over, resting his forehead on Cas’s shoulder. “Why are we still whispering?”

 

“I don’t want to wake the neighbors,” Cas explains. “It’s very late.”

 

Sam sits up and looks at him blankly. His face looks odd with all the different colors on it. “Cas,” he says, at normal volume, “we were just screaming at the top of our lungs an hour ago.”

 

“Oh,” Cas says, voice caught unsurely between a whisper and his normal volume. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

 

Sam starts laughing again, louder this time. “You don’t even _have_ any neighbors! You live in the attic. You’re the only one on this floor!”

 

Cas considers that for a moment. “That would explain why I’ve never received any complaints.”

“There’s like another half a floor between you and the apartments downstairs.”

 

Cas laughs when Sam does, because he likes the sound of their laughs together. “I never realized.”

 

Sam is still chuckling and he starts to lower his head back down onto Cas’s shoulder before he freezes suddenly. “Wait!”

 

“What?” Cas demands, jerking back as Sam suddenly scrambles away from him and to his feet.

 

“Pictures!” Sam says. “There’s ink on your shirt!”

 

Sam stands up, spinning in small circles as he looks around the apartment. “You,” Cas says, pointing at Sam, “sound like me, which is rather disturbing, and means that I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“There’s ink on your shirt,” Sam repeats, striding over to where his blue jeans, button-down, and jacket are hanging over the curtain rod to dry. He begins rifling through the coat pockets and emerges with his cell phone in hand, grinning. “From where I think I rubbed some of the marker off. We gotta get pictures, or these are gone forever.”

 

Cas settles back against the couch again. “That’s kind of a nice thought, isn’t it?” he asks dreamily, smiling up at nothing. “Here and gone before morning, little pieces of it rubbing off and smearing, falling apart, perfectly impermanent…”

 

“No, that’s not a nice thought at all,” Sam says. “It’s a very messy thought that involves doing a lot of laundry, and I don’t know about you, but I want pictures to remember these.”

 

He squats in front of Cas, holding the phone up. “Say ‘cheese.’”

 

“Coagulated casein,” Cas replies, and the camera flashes in his eyes. “I suppose I should take one of you now.”

 

“You suppose correctly.”

 

He takes the shot, and then Sam flops back down next to him, holds the phone out, and takes a picture of the two of them next to each other. Cas squints at the flash. “That’s very bright.”

 

Sam is looking at the pictures. “That’s _very_ bright,” he echoes. “Cas, this is beautiful.”

 

Cas looks at the picture, and then up at Sam’s face. On the left, a mountain range sweeps up the curve of his nose and lips, a lake across his cheekbones reflecting the sunset on his forehead. On the right is the same scene, in darker hues, and the moon showing instead of the sun.

 

It’s some of his best work.

 

"It's okay. Let’s see what you drew,” Cas says, flipping through the photos to find the one of the two of them.

 

Sam tries to pull the phone away, tucking it against his chest. “Honestly, it’s not as good as what you drew, it’s just-”

 

“Sam, really. I’ve seen your work before, I’m sure it’s excellent. Give me the phone.”

 

Sam hands it over, clearly reluctant. “Fine, just… yeah. Fine.”

 

"Oh, Sam..."

 

Cas stares at the photo. If he ignores the fact that it's his face beneath the ink, then it's a stunning picture. Sam's style is different than his, more short, decided strokes rather than the flowing lines Cas prefers. Sam has drawn green over his chin and cheeks, and the small dark hairs just beginning to make an appearance somehow only add to the effect. The rest is in dark blues and grays, with brilliant red and purple fireworks bursting across his face.

 

"I like it," he decides.

 

Sam grins at him. "I like them, too."

 

 


End file.
